


Crossing Boundaries

by kryobee



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryobee/pseuds/kryobee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She sat in the wagon; hands bound, dressed in rags, and wondered which cosmic deity she had annoyed to deserve this. She wondered if the blonde guy sitting across from her would mind if she puked on his boots. It turns out he didn't." The Dragonborn can't remember who she was, but she's working on who she is. She just isn't off to a very good start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing Boundaries

They were being ushered to their deaths like sheep for slaughter, and she didn’t even know the reason why. She sat in the wagon; hands bound, dressed in rags, and wondered which cosmic deity she had pissed off to deserve this.

 

None of the men tied up in the wagon with her looked familiar. Nothing looked familiar, actually. Her head was pounding and a pressure was building behind her eyes like maybe a mammoth had stepped on her face. It hurt too much to think. Each heartbeat brought a wave of fresh agony. She wondered if the blonde guy sitting across from her would mind if she puked on his boots.

 

It turns out he didn’t.

 

“Good to see you’re awake.” He spoke with a thick accent. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it… not that it would have mattered. Still, the Imperials hit you pretty hard. You were trying to cross the border, same as us, right?”

 

She opened her mouth to agree with him -- and then shut it abruptly, her teeth clicking. It was a knee-jerk reaction. It sounded right. They had apparently tried to cross the border ( _whose border_ , she wondered) and she had been there, too. Dressed in rags. With no shoes. And no weapons.

 

Maybe it didn’t sound quite right.

 

“I don’t know,” she said.

 

“We shouldn’t be here,” the man sitting diagonally from her muttered. His gaze was a thousand yards away. Tremors raced through his frame. “I’m not a rebel. Shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks, these damn Stormcloaks the Imperials want… Shouldn’t be here. The Empire was lazy until you came along! Could’ve been halfway to Hammerfell by now if it hadn’t been for you damn Stormcloaks!”

 

The blonde man snorted, shaking his head. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.”

 

“I’m not one of you!” he snapped, angry eyes focusing on the man in front of him. “I’m not a rebel! Not like you, you Stormcloak scum. What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

 

She turned to see who he was talking about. The last man in the wagon was dressed in a fur-trimmed coat and fine clothes instead of rags or armor. He wasn’t dirty or scarred or covered in blood. He was, however, the only one of them who was gagged as well as bound.

 

“Watch your tongue!” Blondie said. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king of Skyrim.”

 

Angry Man became even more hysterical. “ _The_ Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re… you’re the leader of the rebellion!”

 

“Shut up back there!” the wagon driver barked.

 

But Angry Man wasn’t listening. “But if they’ve captured you… but… oh, by the Eight! Where are they taking us? What are they going to do with us? I’m not a rebel! I’m not! I shouldn’t be here, you can’t lump me in with these people!”

 

She winced, her headache thudding in protest against his shrill shouts.

 

“This can’t be happening! This isn’t happening!”

 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Blondie said. “Where are you from, horse thief? Can you tell me that?”

 

“Why do you care?” he sneered.

 

“We don’t,” she groaned, lifting her hands to rub at a temple. “He’s just trying to get you to shut the hell up. So please… _shut the hell up_.”

 

Blondie turned his icy blue stare on her. “A nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

 

“You shut up, too.”

 

But his words stuck with her, repeating themselves to the pounding rhythm of the pain. She tried to summon a thought of home. An image or even a feeling would do, but try as she might, nothing would come.

 

“Rorikstead,” Angry Man whispered. “I’m from Rorikstead.”

 

After that, the wagon trundled along in merciful silence. She almost wished someone would start talking again, just so she didn’t have to think about what was going with her head. The most basic information about herself was gone, vanished into thin air, and the more she thought about it, the worse her headache seemed to rage.

 

The towering trees lining the road thinned out. The steep grade of the road leveled to a gentle slope. Across from her, Blondie sat up a little straighter. Ahead, the stone walls of a small town loomed.

 

The wagon in front of them passed through the gates. An Imperial guardsman waved them through, calling out, “General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting.”

 

She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the whole situation. Ulfric Stormcloak, the _Jarl_ of Windhelm was sitting next to her in a prisoner wagon. They were being personally escorted by an Imperial general. She was rubbing shoulders with some pretty big names. Granted, it wasn’t in a good way. But who was she to be caught in this mess in the first place?

 

Nobody, apparently. The Stormcloaks didn’t recognize her.

 

But Blondie had said she was caught crossing the border. Crossing the border to where exactly, she still didn’t know, but it was safe to assume this was Skyrim. Big, cold, barbaric Skyrim.

 

How annoying she knew Skyrim but not herself.

 

Might as well ask why the chicken crossed the road.

 

The town wasn’t anything special. People milled on their porches. They stood in front of their houses and peered through windows. The gossip flew fast. She was willing to bet absolutely nobody had expected the general to ride into town with a turncoat jarl in tow.

 

“This is Helgen,” Blondie said. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if she still makes that juniper berry mead.”

 

She felt a pang of sadness for her fellow prisoners. As the wagons carried them closer to their execution, their minds were replaying every moment of their lives. They thought about the people they loved and were going to leave behind. She didn’t have to worry about any of that.

 

The wagon jerked to a halt.

 

Angry Man panicked. “Why are we stopping?”

 

“Why do you think?” Blondie said. “End of the line.”

 

A dark-skinned Imperial soldier with a pinched face and fancy armor marched up behind their wagon. “Get these prisoners lined up!” she barked. “I want it done yesterday!”

 

Ulfric Stormcloak was ushered from the wagon first. Two soldiers escorted him away, weapons drawn and pointed at his back. She didn’t understand why everyone seemed so afraid of him. He was a jarl for gods’ sake. Politically powerful, but not someone to physically fear.

 

A bound pair of large hands settled on her shoulder. She startled and looked up. Blondie smiled down at her. “Let’s go, kinsman. Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting for us.”

 

She tried to smile back. “Yeah.”

 

He motioned for her to go first. They stood next to each other in a group of other uniformed Stormcloak rebels. She and the Angry Man were the only two wearing rags.

 

“I’m not a rebel!” he yelled, voice cracking. “Please, wait!”

 

“Face your death with some courage, thief,” Blondie said.

 

“You’ve got to tell them!” Angry Man begged. “Tell them I wasn’t with you! This is a mistake! _Tell them_!”

 

“Quiet!” the Imperial bitch said. She passed a roll of parchment to a handsome soldier standing next to her. He unrolled it, briefly scanning its contents. “Step forward when we call your name. One at a time!”

 

Blondie snorted. “Empire loves their damn lists.”

 

She nodded, numb. It felt like she was being robbed. Her mind was wiped clean, totally blank, and before she could start filling it with new memories -- or even rediscover the old ones -- they were going to chop off her head. It wouldn’t be so bad if she knew why.

 

“Ralof of Riverwood,” the handsome Imperial called.

 

She watched in surprise as Blondie -- Ralof -- stepped forward. He nodded to her, smiling just a little, and walked away.

 

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

 

It wasn’t so surprising to discover Lokir was Angry Man. What _was_ surprising was the fact he ran away screaming like a girl. Also not surprising: Imperial Bitch commanded her peons to make him into a human pin cushion. She winced as Lokir hit the ground with three arrows sticking out of his back.

 

“Anyone else feel like running?” Imperial Bitch asked.

 

Handsome frowned down at his list of names. “Wait…”

 

“What is it?”

 

She startled as Handsome looked up and locked gazes with her. He beckoned her forward. To the captain, he said, “She’s not on the list.”

 

“So?” Imperial Bitch said. “Forget the list. She goes to the block.”

 

Handsome didn’t seem to think much of that answer. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he scribbled something down on his parchment. “By your orders, Captain.”

 

A hot flash of anger drowned out her headache for the briefest of moments. She wished a thousand painful deaths on the captain. No, that was too kind. She hoped some uppity mage would soul trap the bitch and enchant his underwear with her. As much as she wanted to punch the captain in the face, she didn’t want to end up like Lokir; instead, she simply nodded and went to join Ralof in line for execution. Even if she didn’t know who she was, she knew she had some dignity.

 

“I’m sorry,” Handsome said as she passed. “For what it’s worth.”

 

Maybe Imperials weren’t all that bad.

 

Except for the whole execution thing.

 

They stood in line like good little sheep. The headsman stood before them in his black cowl, axe sharpened and ready. Next to him was a solemn priestess of Arkay. And presiding over everything was presumably the exalted General Tullius, a graying man at the end of his prime in decorated armor.

 

The general started off the proceedings by addressing Jarl Ulfric.

 

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” Tullius said as though he tasted the name, contemplating its flavor. His voice was rich and carried well. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

 

Her eyes widened as she realized why the jarl had been gagged. It was why everyone was so afraid of him. He was capable of killing people just by uttering a few words.

 

She felt like she should have known that already.

 

Ulfric mumbled from behind his gag. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowed in cold fury. Despite the fact he couldn’t actually talk, it still seemed to anger General Tullius.

 

“You started this war!” He jabbed an accusing finger into Ulfric’s chest, all heat in face of the jarl’s frosty silence. “You plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down. We’re going to restore the peace!”

 

The sky roared in agreement.

 

People screamed as black terror descended from the clouds. It was a hulking monster with obsidian scales and burning red eyes and huge leathery wings. In short, it was a dragon.

 

A real, honest-to-goodness dragon.

 

She stumbled back as it opened its fanged mouth and _Spoke_. Its Voice washed over her in a rush of power, forcing her to her knees. The words weren’t the common tongue. They were short and guttural, and their power resonated with something deep inside. Another roar hit her like a tidal wave. Her head smacked against the cobblestone.

 

“Dovahkiin!”

 

Darkness claimed her.

 

* * *

 

_“You’re not quite what I expected, but I guess Akatosh knows what he’s doing.”_

_Confusion. Darkness. Pain._

_“It’s all right, though. You’ll do just fine.”_

_Panic. Fear._

_“Calm down. It’s going to be okay. That big dragon? The one that just saved your hide from my empire? That was Alduin.”_

_Pain. Pain. Pain._

_“I know it hurts. You’re supposed to be dead. You’re lucky I’m looking out for you. I had to pull some strings, and I owe Arkay big, so you better be the best damn Dragonborn ever. Other than me, of course. You’re not allowed to be better than me.”_

_Lost. Hurt._

_“You’re about to wake up. I just wanted to let you know we’re all behind you. I’m pulling for you, kid. And between you and me… take help whenever and wherever you can get it.”_

_Light!_

_“Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”_

* * *

“Outta my way Ralof, you damn traitor,” a voice snarked next to her ear. It sounded like Handsome, the Imperial soldier with the list. “I don’t want to fight you, but I will.”

 

Twice in one day she woke up with a pounding head. Maybe it would do her a favor and explode this time. Then again, waking up the second time around was much more pleasant experience. Two warm, strong arms cradled her against an armored chest. She almost didn’t want to open her eyes.

 

“We’re escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof said. “You can’t stop us this time.”

 

Her savior’s breath hitched. “Fine! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!”

 

Multiple people turned and ran, their footsteps echoing as they went. She assumed Ralof was among them, the kind blonde Stormcloak who rode with her on the wagon whose boots she had puked on. She still didn’t want to open her eyes. Handsome -- Hadvar, she reminded herself, _Hadvar’s_ breathing was erratic, and she was positive it wasn’t from the strain of carrying her.

 

There was a story behind Hadvar and Ralof. She just didn’t know what it was.

 

Hadvar steadied himself and placed her gently on the ground.

 

“I know you’re awake,” he said. “You’re not that good at hiding it.”

 

Her face heated. She blinked open her eyes and did her best to fight down the blush. Hadvar was handsome even up close and personal. “Sorry. It just didn’t seem like the right moment to regain consciousness. What about the dragon?”

 

“Busy destroying Helgen. We’re inside the keep now.”

 

He grabbed her hands and sliced away at the rope still binding them together with a dagger. She rubbed at her wrists as soon as the rope was removed. The imprints left behind on her skin were red, itchy, and painful.

 

“Thank you for saving me,” she said. “Not to sound ungrateful or anything… but why?”

 

They locked eyes. Hadvar’s blue gaze was gentle and honest. “You didn’t deserve the block. You’re not a rebel. It felt wrong to leave you there for the dragon.”

 

She swallowed and repeated, “Thank you.”

 

He smiled a little. “You’re welcome.”

 

A muffled roar jolted them apart. She climbed to her feet, swaying slightly as her vision swam. If a mammoth had stepped on her head before, it had outright stomped on it now. It wasn’t a good time for a headache.

 

“Are you familiar with this keep?” she asked, glancing around. “Do you know if maybe they have a store of healing potions?”

 

They were in a small, circular chamber. A barred-shut steel door stood to the left, probably an entrance, while an open gate stood across from them. At their back was another gate, this one closed. The only piece of furniture in the room was a rickety wooden table with matching chairs. A dead Stormcloak was slumped across it.

 

“I’m not sure,” Hadvar said. He motioned to a pile of clothing and armor sitting on the chair across from the corpse. “I found some armor in the barracks back there. Looks like it might fit you.”

 

Anything to get out of the rags. “Great! Er… if you wouldn’t mind turning around…”

 

It was his turn to blush. He nodded and whirled around, arms crossed.

 

“Do you know how to use any weapons?” he asked. “You could take that Stormcloak’s battleaxe, or there are some swords back in the barracks. I have a bow, if you’d prefer.”

 

She froze.

 

The armor was already halfway on. Armor was supposed to fit like a second skin. This set was a little loose, but it would make due in a pinch. The amazing thing? She knew enough about armor to know how it was supposed to fit. More importantly, she knew how to put it on. Her fingers hadn’t fumbled with a single buckle.

 

Hadvar’s question struck something.

 

Did she know how to use a weapon?

 

“A sword,” she said. “A sword would be great.”

 

“I’ll be right back.”

 

Hadvar trotted back through the open gate. By the time he returned with a Legion-issued longsword, she had finished dressing. She strapped the sword’s scabbard to her belt and drew it. The feel of the hilt in her hand felt vaguely familiar. It was also interesting to note she was left-handed.

 

“Let’s go,” Hadvar said. “Before the keep comes down around us.”

 

“Try to keep an eye out for healing potions?” she asked. “I’ve been knocked out twice today. My head is killing me.”

 

He opened the closed gate and gestured for her to go first.

 

“My name is Hadvar, by the way,” he said. “Hadvar of Riverwood.”

 

She smiled at him over her shoulder and began down the stone corridor. “I know.”

 

“And you are…?”

 

“Trouble.”

 

If he thought it was a strange introduction, he didn’t say anything. Probably just as well. The winding, sloping corridor didn’t last very long, so there wasn’t that much time for small talk. What was very obviously a torture chamber opened up in front of them. Her jaw dropped at the scene unfolding within.

 

Ralof and his fellow Stormcloaks were fighting tooth and nail against three legionnaires. It didn’t seem like a fair fight until one of the Imperials unleashed a torrent of lightning on one of the rebels. The poor woman dropped to the ground, back arched and jaw clenched with pain. Her flesh began to roast, the smell of burning flesh permeating the air.

 

She watched from the stairs in horrified disbelief as the Imperial cackled, increasing the flow of electricity into the fallen soldier.

 

Ralof broke free from the second Imperial. With an enraged cry, he cleaved the mage’s skull in two, but it was too late. His fellow Stormcloak was already dead.

 

She flung herself into the fray without a second thought. She parried a blow from one of the two remaining legionnaires. The next moment, she decapitated him with one swift stroke of her blade. To her surprise, Hadvar was right there with her as she attacked the last Imperial. They took him down together, both their swords stabbing into his chest.

 

When they turned to Ralof, he brandished his own weapon at them.

 

“We’re not going to hurt you,” she said.

 

He ignored her, eyes focused on Hadvar. “What do you think you are doing?”

 

“This doesn’t change anything!” her companion said. “We’re still on opposite sides of this war. But right now we’re all trying to get out of here alive.”

 

Ralof still didn’t lower his warhammer.

 

“Damn it, Ralof!” Hadvar growled. “We used to be brothers.”

 

“Fine,” the Stormcloak soldier finally relented. He sheathed his warhammer. “But you’re right. It doesn’t change a damn thing. When we get out of here, we go back to being on opposite sides.”

 

And so, a fragile truce was forged. She, Hadvar, and the two remaining Stormcloaks made their way through the network of caves underneath the keep. Effort had been put into making the dank underground civilized. There were wooden bridges over wide crevices and stone stairs leading down to otherwise inaccessible places. A grate had been placed over the mouth of a natural spring.

 

As much as the people of Helgen had tried to stamp the wild out of the cave, however, they hadn’t been completely successful.

 

“Giant spiders!” She shuddered. “I _hate_ spiders.”

 

She wasn’t sure if she’d hated spiders before they had faced down a whole nest of them in the cave, but she was positive she hated them now. They were ugly, hairy, and had way too many eyes. And their _horrible_ fangs… She shuddered again.

 

Hadvar laughed and draped a wisp of spider web over her hair.

 

None of them had been seriously injured by the spiders, thank the gods. Ralof was feeling a little queasy from the small dose of venom he’d been dealt by one of the younger ones. Both he and Hadvar assured her it would pass. Apparently, they both had previous misadventures with frostbite spiders. It was the first and only moment of genuine friendliness between the two men she had witnessed all day.

 

When it finally looked like they had found the exit, one last obstacle stood in their way: a cave bear. By comparison, the bear made the spiders look small.

 

“We could try and sneak past,” Hadvar said doubtfully.

 

“Are you serious?” she said. “Look -- it’s sitting right in front of our way out. The only way we can sneak by is if it’s blind and deaf.”

 

He sighed and nodded. “Right. Arrows first, Ralof?”

 

Eagle eyes the two men were not. Their flurry of arrows only served to piss off the bear. In turn, it charged them with a knee-knocking display of ferocity. It batted Hadvar aside in a bloody, angry rage before turning on her and the two Stormcloaks.

 

She swore, dodging a massive paw and doing her best to land a blow. She envied Ralof with his long-reaching warhammer.

 

The fighting was second nature. Each motion was smooth, practiced, and calculated. There was a warrior lost somewhere in the dark fog of her mind. Whoever she used to be, that woman had been a badass.

 

They finished the bear off in short order. The final blow was Ralof smashing its skull in with his hammer.

 

She was ecstatic… until she realized Hadvar was still down and out.

 

The legionnaire was slack on the ground. She eased him onto his back, trying not to jostle him too much. An angry red gash split his forehead open where he had smacked his head against a jagged rock. Most of his face was painted with blood. Beneath the torn skin was white.

 

“Oh, Kyne’s tits, are you kidding me!” she cried.

 

“What? What is it?” Ralof asked.

 

 “I can see his skull!”

 

“Does he have a pulse?”

 

She pressed a hand against his jugular. “Yes.”

 

“Here.” Ralof handed her a small red vial. “Coat the wound with this. Wait ten minutes. He might have a concussion when he wakes up. Make sure he gets proper healing later.”

 

“Wait… where are you going?”

 

The blonde Stormcloak smiled at her, his pale face is a sickly green under the light of the phosphorous mushrooms. “Skyrim could use people like you. We could use you in the Stormcloaks. If you’re not serious about this Imperial dog, come find us in Windhelm.”

 

She blinked in confusion. “You’re leaving us.”

 

“We need to find the jarl,” Ralof said. “And we can’t be seen in the company of legionnaires. You and Hadvar will be all right. Make your way to Riverwood as fast as you can. He has family there. They can help you.”

 

They left her alone in the dim cavern with an unconscious soldier and the corpse of a cave bear. She had no memories and no real idea about who she was. She didn’t have a plan for what happened if Hadvar didn’t wake up. The best she could do was smear the medicine Ralof had given her on Hadvar’s face and hope things worked out. So, that’s what she did.

 

And she waited.


End file.
